Writers Jam

there are cemeteries in my mind i used to live in
for hope that a ghost
would haunt me
and in my stubbornness i’d take
spirit to be a body
because the first stage of grief is denial and closer to life than acceptance is;

in hindsight,
the shovel hits the soil twice
and both times i pray for the scent of jasmine

where the graveyard now lies
was a garden i used to rest in
sweetness carried by summer breeze
soft white petals smiling amongst the greenery

now the withered branches stare
creaking a heavy sigh
and if i was not so scared of confusing myth for memory
perhaps i’d not be suffocated by the earth that once cradled me

in some cultures the smell of jasmine at night when there’s none around is a sign of a spirit visiting